Our little city was blanketed in fog this morning. I awoke to a grey nothingness outside my bedroom windows. When I sat up I couldn't even see across the street. Scott and the kids were up, the smell of pancakes in the air. Since I am not a big pancake girl I pulled on my sweats and grabbed my camera and went out for a little adventure. Nothing like some dense fog with a bit of sunlight reflecting off all those water droplets. This is a lonely oak on a little street that we often pass on our way to a friend's house. He sits in a field not far from an ugly house. I've often liked the composition of the big pipe resting at the base of the tree. I thought of transposing this into black and white but instead thought I'd leave it as my eye saw it.
There are many lonely oaks in Morgan Hill. Over a hundred years ago, when the farmers came through they chopped down many of the oaks to plot their farm land. Today the oaks are often at the mercy of the developers. But I've known some people who have built their houses and strived to build around them. I often think that those big oaks have seen more than the people living here. They are the real historians. If only they could speak.